Rising From Hell: The Vengeful Heiress Returns

Hester's four-inch Jimmy Choo heels hit the snow-dusted pavement of the South Lawn. The Secret Service agents stationed along the colonnade had jolted forward the instant they registered Domenic chasing her, but a single snarled command from the President's son—"Stay out of it!"—froze them just long enough for her to slip through the arched doorway and out onto the grounds. She made her steps look frantic and clumsy, but her core was tight. Every footfall was calculated, perfectly avoiding the hidden patches of black ice.

The winter wind slashed across her cheeks like razor blades. She reached the edge of the decorative pool. It was a secluded spot, just outside the direct line of sight of the Secret Service, sitting right on the blind edge of the security cameras.

She stopped.

Domenic came panting up behind her. His custom suit was rumpled from the sprint. His face was twisted into an ugly, humiliated snarl.

He reached out a massive hand, aiming to grab her shoulder and violently spin her around.

Hester watched his reflection in the dark, rippling water. The moment his hand came down, she dropped her right shoulder.

Domenic's fingers grabbed empty air.

His momentum carried him forward. His leather shoes screeched against the wet, freezing stone at the edge of the pool. He flailed his arms, a jolt of panic hitting his chest as he barely caught his balance.

Hester spun around. She pressed her back against the freezing stone rim of the pool and crossed her arms. She looked him up and down, her eyes filled with the kind of mocking amusement usually reserved for a circus clown.

Domenic's face turned purple.

"I will destroy you!" he screamed, pointing a finger inches from her nose. "I will use the power of the Presidency to crush the Stanton family into dust!"

Hester laughed.

The sound was bright, sharp, and completely devoid of fear. It echoed across the empty, freezing lawn.

She took a half-step forward, invading his space. She lowered her voice to a vicious whisper.

"You are just a pathetic puppet, completely clueless about the sickening price your family paid to put you here."

The words hit Domenic like a physical blow. His pupils contracted into tiny pinpricks. The deepest, darkest insecurity of his life had just been dragged into the light.

The last thread of his sanity snapped.

With a guttural roar, Domenic raised his right hand. The veins in his hand bulged. He swung his palm toward Hester's face with all his strength.

Hester didn't flinch. She didn't step back.

She simply tilted her head a fraction of an inch. The wind from his palm brushed the loose hairs by her ear.

Domenic's entire body weight shifted to his right side as he missed. His balance was completely compromised.

In that split second, Hester's right leg shot up.

In her past life, the constant assassination attempts had forced her to endure months of grueling, brutal self-defense training just to survive. She knew exactly where the human body was most vulnerable, though she never expected to use those lethal lessons so soon. The sharp, stiletto heel of her Jimmy Choo drove with brutal precision straight into the back of Domenic's left knee.

Domenic let out a high-pitched shriek. His left leg buckled instantly, completely dead. His massive frame pitched forward and to the right.

Hester reached out, her face twisting into a mask of fake horror. She looked like she was trying to catch him. Instead, she planted both hands flat against his chest and shoved hard.

Domenic went airborne.

He hit the near-freezing water with a massive, violent splash. The icy water shot two meters into the air.

The freezing temperature shocked his system instantly. His lungs spasmed. He thrashed wildly in the dark water, choking and sputtering, unable to form a coherent word.

Hester stood at the edge of the pool. She looked down at him. Her eyes were completely empty of pity. She watched him drown like he was a bag of garbage that refused to sink.

She needed the scene to be perfect.

Hester reached up and violently ripped the pins out of her hair, letting the blonde strands fall in a tangled mess. She grabbed the neckline of her dress and tore it downward, ripping the delicate fabric to make it look like she had been in a desperate struggle.

She dug her own fingernails into the soft, pale skin of her forearms, dragging them down until angry, red welts appeared.

Tears flooded her eyes. Real tears, forced out by the physical sting of her own scratches.

In the water, Domenic finally found the edge. His hands, turning blue from the cold, slapped onto the marble rim. He tried to pull his heavy, soaked body up, coughing up dirty water and cursing her name.

Hester kept her face blank. She lifted her right foot.

She brought the pointed toe of her shoe down, pressing it directly onto the knuckles of his freezing fingers. She didn't stomp. She just pressed her weight down and ground her heel.

Domenic let out a blood-curdling scream. His fingers opened involuntarily.

He slipped backward, plunging beneath the freezing surface again, swallowing a massive gulp of pool water.

A sharp snap of a twig echoed from the bushes to her left.

Hester's head snapped up. Someone was coming.

She instantly pulled her foot back and stumbled two steps away from the pool. She threw her hands over her face and let out a piercing, hysterical scream of pure terror.

Nora, her personal assistant—and the woman who had poisoned her in her past life—came running out from behind the hedges, holding a winter coat.

Nora stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw dropped. She stared at the President's son drowning in the pool, and then at Hester, who was torn, bruised, and sobbing uncontrollably.

Hester looked at Nora through her fingers.

The memory of the poison burning down her throat flared in Hester's mind. A new, beautiful plan formed instantly.